


The thing about eggs

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Crack Fic, Crack(ed egg) fic, Eggs, House-egging, M/M, Omelettes, Simon having a crisis, dark egg lord Baz, graphic descriptions of eggs, literary crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: One master egger. One wide-eyed apprentice. One act of hard-boiled vandalism. Simon Snow's mission is simple: egg the house at the end of the winding driveway. But when Baz Pitch emerges, draped in a velour dressing gown and whispering cruel directives, things swiftly begin to unravel...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 73
Kudos: 216





	1. The first thing

**Author's Note:**

> From [this list of Tumblr AU prompts](https://ninemagicks.tumblr.com/post/616127643448950784/foolofabookwyrm-nightimedreamersworld)  
>  _‘im egging your house for a dare but your parent is a cop and they’re yelling at me so i told them that you were my ex and you wronged me and now you’re coming outside and please go along with this i don’t want to go to jail’ au_  
>  I did all of my egg research online at two o' clock in the morning. Therefore, this fic may contain various Egg Inaccuracies.
> 
>  **Egg art alert:** [The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff) has drawn [this gorgeous art of Baz and Simon](https://thehoneyedhufflepuff.tumblr.com/post/618391679900221440/i-never-recovered-from-baz-erotically-crushing-an), as they appear at the end of chapter one. Please take a look and worship accordingly. :D

**SIMON**   
****

My name is Simon Snow, and I’ve egged a few houses in my time.

I don’t discriminate between residences. Terraces, bungalows, detached, semi-detached, tower blocks, flats above chip shops—I’ll egg ‘em all. No one’s safe from me and a dozen Everyday Value Free Range, no wall or window off limits.

Tonight’s challenge is different. For a start, it’s a dare—I usually choose my targets more carefully. Do some research, scope things out, choose the best spot to launch from. (And I always have an escape route planned beforehand.) Penny passed me a slip of paper with an address on and told me to get on with it, so I didn’t waste much time on the old Google beforehand. I know it’s one of her uni classmates—she says the row of lads who sit in front of her are all idiots. (I don’t know their names. I see her with them in the courtyard sometimes—they look like they make important life decisions over lunch at Nandos.) (Except for the one with black hair. He’s pretty fit.)

I caught the nine o’ clock bus down Poacher’s Row, bag loaded with ammunition, and tried not to think too hard about where I was going. (I might chicken out.) This is the serious part of town—only a master egger could tiptoe past these cameras and over-bred guard dogs without getting caught.

The houses down here are _big_. Fancy. Mansions, some of them. The one I’ve been assigned has got a gate and a long, winding driveway—I climb the wall easily enough and dart between trees and hedges. I’m pretty sure by the time I get there, half the eggs will have smashed in my backpack, but it’s too late now. I’m committed.

I’m breaking out the big boys for this one. None of that amateur own-brand stuff for _this_ locale—no, I’ve got two boxes of XL East Anglian Free Range. (Seeing as this _is_ a special occasion.) The _real_ good stuff, eggs anyone else would save for a master omelette. There are people who would weep, seeing these beauties wasted on a standard window splat.

But not me.

Not tonight.

The house is massive—a behemoth of brick and pillars and fancy curly things, decorating the balconies. (Plural. There are at least three.) The sheer number of windows might present a problem. They’re _everywhere_ —and on one hand that’s good, because it means I have an abundance of targets. But it’s also bad because the chances of someone catching me in the act are high.

Still, there’s no backing out now.

I’ve come all this way. I accepted Penny’s dare.

And at the end of the day, you can’t get a refund on eggs, so. Might as well chuck ‘em at something.

Maybe I should start with the window above the front doors…a demure splattering of yolk and a sprinkling of shell, to warm-up. (The opening scene before my reign (rain?) of terror begins.) I crank my arm back—a rehearsed movement, refined over years of masterful egging—and release.

The egg smacks into the window.

And if this story ended there, in yolk and glory, life would be grand.

But it smacks _through_ the window, shattering a square pane of glass, making an almighty palaver as it disappears into the darkness beyond.

There are two possible explanations for this dog-shit turn of events. One—the house might _look_ fancy, but it’s actually a cheap facade hiding shoddy British construction. Or, two—East Anglian hens are made of fucking scary stuff, laying eggs like house bricks.

There’s no time to consider things further. The front of the house lights up like a Christmas tree—there are concerned voices, the swing of a door, the crunch of gravel—

And I almost have my legs knocked from under me by an old woman with a rake.

“C'mere, you miscreant!” she cries, taking another swing. I duck and slip, my hand punching through one of the eggs in my bag. (Fuck, that’ll make a right mess.) (My knuckles _hurt_.) “What do you think you’re playing at, you rat?”

I’m staggering back to avoid her probing prongs, when a man’s voice rings out from the doorstep.

“Vera, that’s enough! If there’s a rat problem, we’re to call an exterminator.”

The woman stops swinging and puffs at me angrily, dropping the rake and stomping back towards the house. I glance at the front door, chest heaving, to see a man in uniform. He’s got shockingly white hair slicked back from his face, and the sort of scowl I’m used to seeing on the faces of the local plod, when they ask why I’m congregating in bus stops. (In my opinion you physically _can’t_ congregate alone, but do they _listen_ to me?)

Actually, isn’t that _exactly_ where I’m seen him before…?

Oh. Oh _no_. Oh _fuck_.

_Penelope Bunce. Did you dare me to egg a copper’s house?_

He strides down the steps two at a time, starched collar on his shirt twitching menacingly in the moonlight.

“ _Boy,_ ” he snarls, “I _do_ hope this isn’t what it looks like.”

I’m frozen to the spot. _Shit_. I should run, but I can’t feel my legs. Do I have legs? Where am I?

It feels suddenly, incredibly vital that he knows it’s just eggs. Not house bricks, not rocks or pebbles—harmless free range eggs, bought at a premium. Lobbed at his house with love and consideration, by an expert in the field.

“S'just eggs, sir.”

He stops, assessing me with the sort of look he has no doubt used on many a local delinquent. (Yep, I’m sure of it. This bloke has chased me out of a bus stop before.)

“Eggs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are egging a policeman’s house in the dark of night?”

“Er…yes. Sir? Not bricking. Eggs. It was just, well…it was a bloody hard one, sir.”

He scowls, taking another step towards me and rolling up a sleeve.

 _I’m the egg_ , I realise. _I’m the egg, and he’s the whisk. He’ll scramble me like a two-star hotel breakfast._

“No, I mean—it’s _not_ what it seems!”

He pauses, one black eyebrow quirking. (Haven’t I seen that eyebrow somewhere before?) (He _does_ look familiar. But maybe all police look the same.) (It’s like an identity parade of police in my head. They blur into one big, scary uniform.)

“It’s not what it _seems_?” he barks, glancing back at his house. More lights have come on now, and I can make out the shape of someone in the doorway, watching us. “You’d better not be one of my son’s idiot friends, trying to have a lark and a laugh, because if you _are—”_

“Yep, you’re right, that’s it, you got me.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “Idiot son. No, wait— _friend_. I’m the idiot friend. That’s me.” I swallow, knocking my foot against the bag. “He wronged me, y'see. Proper wrong, what he did. Git of a son. So…because I’m an _idiot_ , I thought I’d sneak out here and…and…”

“ _Egg my fucking house_?”

I squeak, trip, and end up with a face full of slime as he approaches again, muttering something about _nocturnal vandalism_ and _fast-tracked ASBOs_.

“He was…we were…he was taking me out! And he stood me up, like a scoundrel! I was…I was _spurned_.” ( _Where are these words coming from?_ ) “By your son. Hurt deeply. And I know this isn’t the right way to handle it, but…but I’m an _idiot_.”

I don’t know why I’m suddenly into blokes, in this weird alternate egg-universe I’ve created, but there you go. Maybe it’ll shock the angry copper enough to baffle him. (He _does_ stop marching.) (It’s more of a stationary police leer now, which I can handle.)

He takes deep breaths, mouth dropping open to unleash the age-old tradition of a Standard Verbal Police Warning Delivered Unto A Troubled Youth, when a hand appears from the dark and closes around his arm.

“Father, let me deal with this.”

I wipe egg white from my eyes and look up into the face of Penny’s fit classmate.

Black hair, wavy and sleep-messed. Dark eyes. Full, pouty lips. Same judgmental eyebrows as his dad.

_Fuck. Penny. Why?_

“Is it true?” the man asks, looking between us in confusion. (Slight horror?) “Basilton, you ought to be more ambitious than _this—_ he looks like he shops at _Wilko!”_

“Oi!” I shout, picking up my backpack and watching broken egg drip pathetically from the straps. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

They raise their evil eyebrows at me in perfect unison.

“Sorry, father,” the fit one says, stepping between us. “I’ll make him go away.”

Another look. I return it, aware of the shards of shell clinging to my chin. Whatever’s between us is enough to make his dad give up and turn back towards the house, shoulders slumped.

“You’ll pay for the window, boy.”

My mouth’s dry. I’ve got a bag full of eggs and no water—I’m going to have to start planning these upper-class skirmishes a bit more thoroughly. “Yes, sir.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with Penny’s classmate, whose face is a blend of dark amusement and arrogance.

“Bunce,” he hisses, once his dad’s back in the house. (Definitely a door slam. I’m really up shit creek, here.) “That’s where I’ve seen you before. You’re the one who trails her about campus like a bothersome shadow.”

“I’m no bother,” I mutter. “Shut up, y'posh twat.”

The look he gives me almost has me quivering into my egg box. _Almost_.

“ _Baz_ ,” he says, eyes running up and down my night gear. (Black trackies, grey jumper, balaclava with holes in.) “And who might you be, oh master criminal?”

I swing my bag so a bit of egg flecks his velour dressing gown. (He must have pyjamas on under there. He’s the sort that goes to bed early to get his beauty sleep, I bet.)

“Simon Snow.”

“ _Simon Snow,”_ he sneers, rolling his eyes. He follows it up with a sigh, one hand on his hip. “And what, _Simon Snow_ , will tempt me to maintain your foolish ruse tonight? _I wronged you—_ is that what you said? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you arrested this instant.”

He’s bossy. (It’s kind of…sexy? In an eggy way.)

“Because it was Penny,” I blurt. I’m totally out of my depth—this is why I work hard to never get caught. (I crack under pressure.) “She egged me on. No, forget I said that—she dared me to do it, yeah? Not just that… _double donkey dared_. So I had to.” I lip my licks. “There was no other way.”

His eyebrow’s still defying gravity. Maybe I should keep talking? Or would that make things worse? (Can things get worse?)

“Penny. Penelope Bunce.”

“Yeah. You’re doing the same course as her, right? She sits behind you in lectures.”

“ _She_ put you up to this?” He forces the words through his teeth, as though they’re causing him physical pain. “I should have known. The look on her face when her eyes alighted on my A…the slow, sad slide down her seat, as she digested her maudlin B…yes, I should have expected this.”

I shuffle my feet. Is he talking about _essays_? “Look, don’t be pissed off at Penny. This was me, ultimately.” I monitor him for signs of impending rampage. (He’s scarily calm, grey eyes drinking me in.) “This was _my_ egging. I made the executive decision.”

Baz folds his arms across his chest, tipping his head to one side. I endure a visual disembowelling. “I see.” A pause, a smirk. (Why does it make me uneasy _and_ sweaty?) “I assume you’d rather end tonight in your own bed, and not at the local police station?”

Does he really want me to answer that, or…?

Best stay quiet, in case it’s a trap.

He sighs, tossing his hair and looking over his shoulder—someone’s standing in the downstairs window, hassling the curtains. “Here’s how this will go. _You_ will do something for _me_. Assist me with a task I’ve in mind. And then, once you’ve proven yourself useful, we’ll forgive the minor incident of the egg in the nighttime. What do you say, Snow?”

Nope. It’s definitely a trap. I keep my own trap _closed_.

“I’ll even aid you with the damages,” he continues smoothly, voice like treacle. (Or runny egg.) “I doubt you can afford to replace the glass, judging by how you comport yourself. We can take it out of your egg allowance, over the coming months. Does that sound fair?”

I growl as I nod, which is confusing. It’s just, his voice is kind of… _husky_?

He’s getting to me. (I want him to keep talking.) (If I tossed another egg, would he threaten me directly? That might be hot.)

“Alright, but…” I swallow, and he licks his lips again. “…what do you need assistance with?”

Baz purses his lips, running a long finger along his chin. (It’s not eggy, like mine.) (I’m suddenly, ludicrously tempted to dip his fingers in my backpack, like an indecent soft-boiled egg and soldiers reenactment.) “An omelette. I will require an omelette from you, Snow.”

“An om…you _what?_ ”

“Fond of eggs, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t _cook_ with them.”

He steps closer, leaning to peer inside my gaping bag, eyes roaming over the carnage within.

“East Anglian?” he asks.

“What?” I step back, tugging at the zip. “East what?”

“East Anglian,” he repeats, holding up a sticky, yolk-ridden finger. He touches his face, and a bit ends up in his vicious eyebrow. “Free range, if I’m not mistaken. Almost five pounds per half dozen…you _did_ go all out.” Another step. His hair on my cheek. I watch yolk drip from his raised brow. “The thing about eggs, Snow, is that they break. Oh. So. _Easily_.” He reaches into my backpack and pulls out an intact egg, holding it up to my face. He crushes it in his palm.

We maintain horrendously intense eye contact as the egg cracks and oozes between us.

“You,” I say thickly, understanding. “You’ve done this before.”

He leans into me, lips hot against my ear, and murmurs, “Yes, Snow. I have egged a few houses in my time.”

I fumble, spilling the contents of my backpack on the gravel. The urge to drop to my knees in worship—of _him_ , a true master, a devious _mastermind_ of the egging arts—is almost unbearable. I flail, arms flicking up and out, splattering his dressing gown with shell fragments.

“Sorry! I didn’t, I—oh, _fuck_.”

He wipes egg from his face. I watch a drop dangle from the end of his nose before it falls and lands on his slipper.

“Too chicken to throw one at me, Snow?”

All remaining resolve within me crumbles. I pull my dripping bag up onto my back, staining my clothes with the memory of this awful, awful night.

“Sorry, but you've—you’ve got egg on you!” I splutter.

He rubs at his face again with a velour sleeve, smirking wickedly. “Omelette, Snow. Monday morning, eight o’ clock sharp, or there will be dire consequences. Meet me in the courtyard by the clock.”

“Meet you…courtyard…clock,” I jabber, not sure I’ll have the strength to haul myself back over the wall. (Maybe I’ll die here in Baz’s driveway, covered in egg and regret.) ( _Mystery corpse causes salmonella scare. Police scramble to contain it._ )

Is he…is Baz going to prank Penny with an _omelette?_

“Baz, I-”

“Monday,” he sneers, as the last remnant of yolk slides along his cheekbone. “And you’d best ensure it’s cheese. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, master,” I say automatically. “I mean, yeah. Alright. Whatever.”

_No more eggings, after this. Never again. Early retirement—it’s for the best._

The front door of the house opens, and a man’s voice calls out. (It’s him again—the copper.) Baz smiles at me. “It’s alright, father—all taken care of. Ex-boyfriend, out for his petty revenge. We’ll settle up for damages next week.”

_Ex-boyfriend. Ex. Eggs. Egg. Omelette._

_Fuck._

I don’t remember making it down the driveway.

Somehow, I roll myself over the wall and end up in a bush…I stay there until the world comes back to me. I catch the last bus home, the driver giving me a right dirty look as I pay my fare. (I might smell like a farm, mate, but I can promise you I _feel_ even worse.)

Penny texts me to ask how the mission went. I don’t reply.

On my phone, I look up a few recipes. _East Anglian free range cheese omelette for desperate beginners. Please help me. I’ve made a terrible mistake._

Zero results, apparently.

I have to do it. I _have_ to cook. Baz may not have double donkey dared me, but there was murder in his eyes if I refused.

Can’t believe I broke his fucking window.

Can’t believe Penny sent me after her fit classmate.

Can’t believe I’m imagining him, lounging around his stupid house in his stupid velour dressing gown.

I close my eyes and slide down the bus seat, backpack soggy between my feet. I think about the yolk on his face, the way it slid along his skin. (This should not be even _remotely_ erotic, but alas.) When we reach my stop, I step down and drag myself along the pavement, abandoning my ruined backpack in a wheelie bin.

Penny tries to call me. I turn off my phone.

 _How many boxes of eggs do I have in the fridge?_ _Do I own a frying pan?_

Omelettes. _Cooking_. Baz’s lip, curled back in a sneer.

Fuck’s sake.

My house-egging days are over. I know that now.

My name is Simon Snow, and I egg no more.


	2. The other thing

**SIMON**

Monday morning arrives too quickly, like a dentist appointment or something else you naturally tend to dread. (Exams. Interviews. Showers.) (Is that just me?)

I stand by the clock in the courtyard, the plastic Morrisons bag in my hands disguising a paper plate. The plate contains the sweat, blood and labour of a long weekend spent indoors. _My masterpiece. My life, leading to this._

These are far from ideal loitering conditions—I'm freezing my knob off—but I can't leave. Not until Baz shows up. I'm determined to carry myself with a bit more composure this time. (No kneeling.) (Absolutely no _spontaneous_ _worship.)_

I have to wait here until he comes to claim his payment, if that's what this is. What the fuck does he want an omelette for, anyway?

His breath against my cheek, yolk in his brow...honestly, my dreams last night don't bear thinking about. Much of Friday's failed mission has been mentally compressed into a blur, but what I _can_ still remember is unsettling. (Downright disturbing, really, so I'm doing my best to push it down. Deep, deep down.)

_Eggs. Ex-boyfriend, out for his petty revenge._

My kitchen's a wreck. I was up late last night, the night before that and all the hours between, trying to make a sodding omelette that _didn't_ resemble a puddle of cat sick. I cried twice and broke the handle off my frying pan. I banged my head on cupboard doors and threw darts at a crudely drawn sketch of an egg with one evil, arched eyebrow. I swore that if there was a god up there or _anything_ watching over me, it'd take pity and divinely fry an omelette into my hands that wasn't a total fucking eyesore. It'd do the work for me, so I could go to bed and forget every single terrible thing about my life.

Nobody came to my rescue. Images of Baz assaulted my mind—he was a smirk draped in a loosely-tied dressing gown, chef's hat, and little else.

I went through everything in my fridge. Gave it all I had. Every egg, every slice of processed cheese, every grain of salt and splash of oil. _You can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs **—**_ I've heard that phrase before, but never realised how _literal_ it was. The recipes I found demanded fancy cheeses like cheddar or Emmental...but I thought, y'know what? Forget it. If this is my death omelette, it might as well resemble me. (Cheap, knock-off rubbish.) (I _do_ shop at Wilko and I _don't_ see what the fucking problem is, mate.)

And now we're here. Monday morning. Eight o' clock, as commanded.

I wait patiently for the end.

The clock announces the dreaded hour—honestly, who the fuck gets up this early for _fun?—_ and I peer around anxiously. There's nobody else in the courtyard, because that'd be insane. It's just me in my casuals, trying to look...well, _casual_. (Not suspicious, which I have on authority is my natural state.) (Actual authority. That's what the police tell me every time they stop to _have a_ _word._ ) I run my hands over the bag's crinkled plastic, flinching with each relenting _bing_ and the inevitable follow-up _bong_.

As the eighth bell tolls, he appears before me.

And I mean, he actually _appears_. One second I'm looking at someone’s discarded kebab from The Uni Night Out of Legend, and the next he's _there_ , practically standing on my toes. It's as if he melts out of the stonework fully formed, like the alluring, velvet-draped warden of my nightmares.

“Snow,” he says, hands in pockets.

“Baz.”

I hold up my paltry offering, fingers clutching the plate’s edges. He takes it from me, running a gloved finger over the Morrisons logo. ( _Leather gloves_ at eight in the morning? What the fuck have I got myself into?)

I brave a full-frontal assault from his murderous eyebrow.

“Did you follow my instructions?”

Somebody crosses the courtyard behind him and I try to catch their eye, but they don't notice us. (We're a trenchcoat and a few fake Rolexes away from a classic back-alley transaction. Can't blame a stranger for turning a blind eye.)

“Cheese, egg, butter,” I mumble. “Bit of oil. Salt. A spatula got involved at one point, and a wooden spoon...a saucepan? Couple of whisks. _Egg cups_.” I'm just saying kitchen-related words. I clamp my mouth shut and dare to look at him. ( _Double donkey dare._ ) He looks stupidly fit this morning. He leans in close, breathing in the undeniable air of dread that's wafting off me, and winks. (That _wanker._ )

“It sounds momentous. Didn't go behind my back and buy it from Greggs, did you? I do hope not. I'd have to set my housekeeper on you.”

 _That mad old bat with the rake?_ I roll my eyes. Of course he has a housekeeper.

“No. Greggs don't sell proper omelettes. Only omelette baguettes.” I could go for a greasy sausage roll, though. Sop up the nerves that are sloshing about in my stomach.

" _Omelette baguettes?_ "

"Yeah. Breakfast menu."

He doesn't open the bag to see if I'm lying. (I'm not. I would've bloody well bought one from Greggs, if that was an option. Save myself the trauma.) I used my premium eggs and last cheese triangle—Dairylea!—on this monstrosity, because some dark, unknowable part of me is desperate to impress him.

“What sort of eggs did you use, Snow?”

I rub at my neck, recalling the state I left my fridge in. “Cotswolds. Large. Organic.” My best box, kept on the furthest shelf. I'd been saving them for a special occasion—a town hall egging, or something else of that calibre.

He nods, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Acceptable. And the cheese?”

“Slices,” I shrug.

“ _Slices?_ ”

“Yeah. Cheese slices.” I checked the label. _Contents: minimum 52% cheese solids_. _[May contain traces of cheese.]_

He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You made an omelette with cheese slices?”

“Yeah,” I say. Wait, was I not supposed to do that? (I did wonder what might be in the other 48%.)

He shakes his head, long strands of hair trapped in his velvet scarf. (It reminds me of his dressing gown—soft and decadent, falling open in the dark like a pair of depressed Victorian curtains.) “It will suffice, for the purpose I've in mind.” He smiles indulgently at me, caressing the bag. Then he bends over it and _sniffs the plastic_. (It's obscene and I don't know how to react.)

“What...” I whisper, grasping at the shreds of pride I cling to, like driftwood at sea. (This _does_ feel a bit like drowning on dry land.) “What are you going to do with it?”

Much of the weekend was spent wondering what the fuck Baz could do to Penny with an omelette. Splat her with it, right in the mush? Too obvious; he's no amateur pie-flinger. Baz seems really into eggs, if you know what I mean—I'm not sure he'd do anything vulgar. He's upset that I used cheese slices instead of the proper stuff...maybe he's going to lace it and feed it to her, unleashing his eyebrow in its demonic dance of seduction?

Something about that doesn't sit right with me. Baz's eyebrow, arching for Penny. I've given some thought to the whole _do I like blokes now?_ thing, and I think at the very least, I fancy Baz. (Although _fancy_ might not be the word.) ( _Cower before_. That's more like it.)

He's standing so close. I can smell his cologne—like a coniferous tree dipped in sea salt. I like it a bit _too_ much, so I take a step back out of caution. (And...reverence?)

I'm worried that if I touch him something will crack, and I won't be able to stop what comes after. One touch is all it'd take.

Another step back, then. Just to be safe.

“The fate of the omelette is not your concern.” His scarf flutters—I want to rub it the wrong way, then rub my face against it. (What is _happening_ to me?)

"Yeah it is, though."

"You flatter yourself," he sneers, holding the plate against his chest. "I assure you, I've no interest in revenge. Thanks for breakfast, Snow—so _modest_ , how you've wrapped it."

I watch him disappear into the morning, quick and final enough that I'm left wondering if he was there at all.

"Oi!" I cry, to no avail. "Nothing wrong with Morrisons!"

 _Are we square now?_ _Do I still need to pay you back for your dad's window?_

I wonder if this is what it's like, being one of Baz's friends. Feeling vaguely uncomfortable, sufficiently insulted...and weirdly unfulfilled.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. It's Penny— _is the top secret transaction complete?_

She's taking the piss. I tried to warn her about Baz while I was mid-omelette haze, but she thought I was exaggerating—shitting myself because of what happened at his house. (I made her swear on a stick of butter that she didn't know his dad was a copper.) (She said that from the way he dressed at uni, she assumed they were a family of undertakers.) She insists she's not afraid of Baz Pitch and refuses to heed my warnings about what's coming, even though I don't know what that is.

He's plotting something. Something _evil._ Something no man should do with an egg.

I try to tell myself I've done my part. I told Penny that Baz was coming for her, via my terrible cooking. I did what I could. I also notified her via formal text message that my double donkey dare days are over, and as such, I'll no longer be available for late-night egging skirmishes. She'll have to resort to the underbelly of the food-related vandalism community, if she needs another contractor. (There's a Facebook group.)

I know it'll be a blow to the art form, me hanging up my backpack. But it's for the best.

I head to my morning lecture, thinking about leather gloves and a long finger, trailing languidly over a crinkled capital M.

This _can't_ be good for me.

The hours pass slowly. My eyes stray to every clock on every wall in every room, which is frustrating. (The hands don't seem to move.) Time drags me back to the courtyard—velvet scarves, restless eyebrows, a rustling carrier bag, my name in his mouth...

Shit.

I'm really in for it, aren't I?

Everywhere I go on campus, I see Baz. (I don't. Not really. I'm sure he's got better things to do.) (But I _swear_ he's following me.)

He's lurking behind a lamppost, looking up recipes on his phone—he's lingering by a bench, violently rummaging through a bin for ingredients. On the stairs, critiquing my whisk technique...in the library, leafing through a book about chickens.

I text Penny to tell her I've cracked and she calls me a prat. I sink under the sinks in the men's toilets and wait for him to find me. (I know he will. Our fates are joined, like bacon and brown sauce.)

This is how I'm going to die. Haunted by an eyebrow and the spectre of a poorly-cooked breakfast.

Penny phones me while I'm muttering to myself about Cadbury Creme Eggs. (That's the only sort of egg I want anything to do with, after this.)

 _“Simon,”_ she tuts, _“you're a shell of your former self. Pull it together.”_

“He's bloody scary,” I hiss. “Why did it have to be _him_ , Pen? Why not one of his Nandos-versus-Reebok mates?”

_“You're being dramatic—jumping at shadows, pulling your hair out at the roots. Is that what you want from this, Simon? Bald patches? He's not going to do anything to me, and he's not going to do anything to you. An omelette, Simon—really?”_

She thinks I'm losing it.

She might be right.

I scrape myself off the floor, scaring the beans out of a bloke stood at one of the urinals. (He goes skittering through the door without washing his hands—animal!—with flies hanging low.) I soap up then sneak out, checking in both directions before I tiptoe through the doorway like I'm walking on eggshells. That's what I do now—I _suspect._ I _anticipate._

In the atrium, I find an empty bench to sit on. I shuffle a few left-behind things out of the way—Friday's newspaper, vouchers for a half-price yoghurt, unimportant Level 6 chemistry notes—only looking down when my thumb makes contact with something cold and squishy.

_There. There you are._

I glance down to find my omelette staring back at me.

I jump clear of the bench, sending a plastic fork flying across the tiled floor, tripping over my own feet and bruising more than my ego. Passing students stop to stare at me, no doubt alarmed by the wreck of a man collapsed before them, desperately pawing a half-eaten omelette into the nearest available bin.

 _Fuck. He_ did _plan to eat it. He's had at least three bites._

_What else is that wanker plotting?_

I whirl around in a circle, seeking black hair, grey eyes, cruel lips.

But Baz isn't in the atrium.

If he _did_ leave this omelette unattended (it's definitely my handiwork—there's the Dairylea, oozing out one end), it was long before I crept out of the loo.

My heart races as I lift the last scraps of congealed mush. A piece of paper flutters out from beneath the soggy plate, and I catch it in a shaking hand.

  
**Have I been on your mind today?  
** **I'm not done with you yet, Jamie Oliver.**

  
  


He’s such a fucking tosser, honestly. _Jamie Oliver?_ If anything, I'm the rage and raw technique of Ramsay.

Still…he ate half of it. Half of my hard work, in his mouth.

_Bollocks to this. I won't lose my mind over Baz Pitch and an omelette. I won't._

I shuffle off home before I can start thinking too hard about forks.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Later, after dark and just as the Coronation Street theme’s kicking in, there’s a knock at the window.

Well, I’m not sure it’s a _knock_ , exactly—more a wet, sloppy splat.

I cross to the window and pull open the curtains. Another missile hits, and if the glass weren’t there, I’d take a direct hit to the nose.

 _That aim. The curve, the angle…sheer perfection! Could it—could_ he—?

No.

Surely not.

_It can’t be..._

Another splatter rocks the glass in its frame, and I’m legging it to the door before my landlady can poke her head around the bannister and give me another classic _uni students are abominations and I wish you nothing but misery and unachievable career expectations!_ speech.

When I open the front door he’s there, standing in the dark beneath the only lamppost in the street that’s not illuminated. He’s got that velvet scarf on again, draped dramatically over a shoulder so I can only see his eyes. There's a black duffel bag slung casually over an arm. He looks like a high-end burglar. _Versace 2020 spring collection: lock-picking couture._

“Baz?” I whisper, stepping down onto the pavement. (I shuffled into my comfy pair of trainers.) “Is that you?”

I _know_ it’s him. But I need confirmation that this isn’t all some weird egg and cheese-based hallucination I’ve been trapped in since Friday.

He looks me in the eye and— _oh—_ there goes that fucking eyebrow again. My knees tremble. ( _Don't you dare give way, you traitors._ ) “Rubbery,” he says, sporting what I'm beginning to realise is his habitual smirk. “Slippery. Dense and overly-chewy. Bland. Chemical, stale, inadequate. Woefully offensive.”

I wait for him stop spewing words, then search for a few of my own. “Who are you calling Jamie Oliver, mate?” (Nice one.)

“I'm summoning a few choice adjectives to describe your fine cuisine, Snow.” Baz sneers, tossing something up and down in his hand. I peer through the dark—is that a _ball_? A ping-pong ball, or one of those bouncy balls you get out of the fifty pence machines by Morrisons. (Handful of crusty old M&Ms or a bouncy ball? You know I get the ball every time.) (Penny says I shouldn't waste so much money on balls.)

But...no. It's not anything nearly as joyful. I scowl, but it has no effect on him.

He's tossing a fucking _egg_. Like a tosser. An egg-tossing tosser.

“Is that...?” I stagger down the path, holding out a shaking finger. “Is that a _Chestnut Maran...?_ ”

He grins at me. “Good eye, Snow.”

I swore off the life of freelance eggery. I've opted for retirement. I'm out of the game, trying new things.

But...rich, dark brown, lightly speckled...you have to get down the shop early in the mornings to pick up a box of these bad boys. Dressed and ready to go at dawn, eyes on the prize. The lads on my estate all go mad for them—reckon they taste richer, and splat better when thrown at high speeds. Baz must be mad, tossing it in the air like that—as if he hasn't shelled out a small fortune for it. (Though looking at his house, it's probably nothing to him. Pocket change. Pennies!) And does this mean... _did he lob a Chestnut Maran at my window?_

What a privilege. An _honour._

_He is the chosen one._

There's that sneer, putting me in my place. Confirming my fears.

"You didn't prank Penny."

"No."

"You weren't going to. You were pranking _me._ " (Sort of.) (Or did I end up pranking myself?)

“Clever, aren't you? Come here, Snow—I'll let you hold it.” He holds the damn thing out to me, fully aware of the power he holds. “Wouldn't you like to throw it at something? A welcoming stretch of brickwork, an unsuspecting run of trellis...”

I swallow. “No.”

 _Are we even, now?_ I want to ask. _For the broken window. You ate my shitty cooking and egged my flat. Can we call it a day and stop this madness?_

“Ah,” Baz sighs, dropping to a crouch and reaching into his duffel bag. (He's dressed in black leather, like a mugger who's had a severe Marilyn Manson phase.) “That's a shame. Are you sure you can't be tempted? I brought something especially for you.”

When he stands the brown egg is gone from his palm, replaced with a delicate pastel-blue sphere. (Oval? Fuck if I know shapes.) (But I _do_ know eggs.)

_Blue Araucauna._

They're an extravagance. Far too pretty to waste on a first-floor flat with pebbledash walls, but...they're so _pretty_ on impact. The weaselly, egg-flinging part of my brain sparks to life.

_He brought these for me?_

_He wanted me to see his...his_ arsenal?

“What are you going to do with them?” I rasp, glancing up at the mess on my window. I'll have to stick an arm out in the morning, have a bash at it with a damp flannel before the landlady sees and tears me a new arsehole.

He steps closer, holding the tiny egg between his thumb and forefinger. I want to reach out and crush it, then rub the—

_No. Stop._

_It's over._

But Baz is moving gracefully towards me, backing me up against the dead lamppost.

“I've got a list of addresses,” he threatens, eyes like flint in shadow. “Two dozen eggs and a brand new balaclava, with your name on it.” He's close enough to touch. Close enough to— “Shall we?”

 _Shall we what?—_ that's what I should say. _You've driven me mental all day, and then you show up at my flat, wasting top-tier eggs like a madman. Like you were born into this, merely the latest in a long line of greats._

(His dad's not an egger, is he?)

Instead of all that, I say, “Yes, sir!” and almost do a fucking salute.

I hate myself.

He unfolds a piece of lined paper, handing me the blue egg. I cradle it in my cupped palm like I'm holding a lost treasure. In what can only be his own ludicrous handwriting—more loops than a packet of Hula Hoops, this one—are various addresses, both business and residential. (Wait, is that _his own_ address at the end?)

Baz doesn't speak. He waits.

I take a faltering step away from the lamppost, to close the gap. I wilt.

“Time to begin? We can consider your debt settled, Snow.”

I don't know why any of this is working for me. I understand, with every fibre of my being, that it shouldn't—expensive eggs should not be in any way sexy, after the trauma of today. (You could argue that eggs shouldn't be sexy at all. But have you ever _seen_ an XL Scottish Hand-Picked Free Roam in flight?)

Baz Pitch is doing something to me. Something weird.

I slip the Blue Araucauna into a pocket. (Which can only end in disaster, but we'll cross that eggy bridge when we get to it.) I double donkey dare myself to push my mouth against his ear and ask, “Does your dad know you do this?”

A second.

A breath.

A whisper. _I have egged a few houses in my time._

“The other thing about eggs, Snow?” he murmurs. “They're disappointingly fragile. One touch, one crack, and it's over.”

_One touch. One crack._

I knew it. Said it earlier, didn't I? That's all it would take.

He doesn't step back.

Neither do I.

Instead, I slip two fingers under his chin and tip his face into mine.

The kiss isn't like any other kiss previously recorded in the annals of egging, so I don't have the right words to describe it. Peculiar—I suppose that's a fair place to start. My fingers crush around the egg in my pocket, then end up in his hair. I press my lips hard against his and wait for him to push me off or say something vile, or call me Jamie Oliver.

But he doesn't. He kisses me back.

It's deeply upsetting. He tortured me all day with my own bad cooking, then shows up at my flat to extend the agony. (Hang on. How does he know where I live?)

The kiss is also good. So very, regretfully, painfully good. He tastes like cheese slices and court cases—like swerved juvenile delinquency hearings and botched paperwork, because his dad's a policeman and he lives a life I'll never know.

He pulls away and asks me if my egging is any better than my cooking.

“Sod off, you snob.”

"And your snogging?"

 _"I will egg you in your sleep._ "

“I'll take that as a no.”

He walks away and I follow, because what else is there? The path is set—it has been since he stepped off the doorstep on Friday night, and I swore allegiance to his velour dressing gown. We join the main road and turn left down an alleyway...I don't have the proper gear for going incognito, but Baz doesn't seem to care—if anything, he's thrilled by my scuffed white trainers. He wraps a hand around my wrist and drags me along.

“Ready, Snow?”

“Suppose so.” _  
_

My egging days _aren't_ over. Simon Snow _will_ live to toss another day.

Something else, something new starts in the nighttime. I slip my fingers through his.

He says we're going to start out with half a dozen Medium Northern Irish Organic Free Range—take things slow. Beginner's eggs, so I can build up my confidence again.

_There's no need to rush. We have all night.  
_

Then, when I'm ready, he's going to let me handle his Chestnut Marans.

I stretch out my throwing arm. Increase our pace to a steady, reprobate stroll.

I walk into the night with trouble, and let the eggs fall where they may.


End file.
